He leaned over, slowly, and kissed her. That was one of the moments when the two persons she seemed to him, baffiingly, to be were merged into a single identity. He put his arm around her shoulders, and standing in the unsure light which the lamp gave, with the table cluttered with the dirty dishes behind him, beyond the open door of the dining- room, and with his gaze fixed on the blank wall, he was filled with a joy and certainty which seemed to him, at the moment, final "Good Lord!" she said suddenly, and stepped back from his embrace. " Suppose Martha'd come in to get the dishes and see us." " Suppose," he repeated, with an inflection that made her look questioningly at him. "Well, it would be a pickle," she observed matter-of- factly. " Sure/' he agreed. " Sure." " Sure/' she said, " but you don't have to have that expres- sion on your face," and laughed. " Besides "—and she paused, and regarded him amusedly—"if you'll get it off, I might come down to see you tonight. Even if I do freeze to death getting there." " That's not the point," he replied. "Gratitude"—she gave a mock sigh and shook her head deprecatorily at an imaginary audience—"gratitude and chivalry for you." " That's not what I meant," he said. He did not know exactly what he had meant. Those two identities which had seemed to merge at the moment when he leaned toward her and kissed her were now quite separate. Again, as before, there were the two people, the one who made jokes with her father and hummed aimless snatches of songs and moved about the household occupations with heels tapping briskly and cheerfully on the expanses of bare board, and the other one who, tonight, would stand just inside the shadowy white door, with her finger to her lips, and then approach his bed. He shook his head.